


Return to Life

by muguetmuse



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Canon Era, F/M, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muguetmuse/pseuds/muguetmuse
Summary: There's a rumor at the Populaire: the new chorus girl from Marseille is the reason the youngest DeChagny almost died. To save Christine's budding career and Raoul's life, the road is riddled with love, deception, and an inevitable confrontation of the other suspect–the opera ghost.E/C endgame.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny & Christine Daaé, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Marseille

**Author's Note:**

> I'm quite nervous about posting this, but here we go. The story starts out as a respectable RC but it will focus on EC eventually. This is mainly ALW-based, but you may see traces of Leroux/Kay. Probably some anachronisms for the late 1880s. Rated M for cursing/mild violence/potential intimate scenes.
> 
> Shout-out to my lovely friend [Addie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironfamjam/pseuds/ironfamjam) for being so encouraging and beta-ing even though she isn't even in this fandom, LOL, and [ Rin ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfish_sunfish/pseuds/sunfish_sunfish) for her support! 
> 
> Enjoy some calm exposition in the meantime.

There was a time, Christine thought, that life was contained to wherever she landed. Where the Daaé family landed, most of the time, was in a brand new city. New rivers and backdrops, cobblestone streets or dust underfoot. They’d travel with their company, carrying bags enough to fit on their backs and hands for long distances. 

Even when Papa told her daily wild tales of mystical creatures and foreign lands, she had unwavering faith that no matter what new city they found themselves in, the sun would stream through a window of varying shape and size and the birds’ song was expectant as a gale though different in pitch, but they were both welcomed radiance and music all the same. With it, any uncertainties and fears of the night would dissolve into the joy of a new day.

Again. All contained, even in her dreams and fantasies. 

Traveling across the continent as it suited them, the unknown was nothing that daunted her. Often, she would sing with the chorus girls in their traveling group or dabble in a bit of ballet with the dancers. Only in the late evenings could she and Papa spare a moment together, with a bedtime story and lullaby to tuck her in, but they were precious moments all the same. 

Eventually and without warning, Gustave chose a town just outside of Paris to settle down with the help of Madame Giry and Meg, both Parisian citizens, from their traveling company. 

Against his better judgement, Gustave sat Christine down, said they were taking a small vacation away from the company. To spend time together, to get some fresh ocean air. It was not a complete lie. Always a girl ready for a new adventure, Christine happily clapped her hands and packed with vigor, even more fueled by the news of the Girys joining them. There were few things they carried apart from their necessities. Christine packed these with care: her father’s violin and the drawn portrait of her mother and father.

Before they knew it, they arrived. The southern port city of Mama’s home country: Marseille, France. 

The glittering waves lapped against the dock, the ships pulling in and out of the harbor in an orderly, ever-changing puzzle. The occasional horn blared as they passed, drowning conversation for a brief moment before the clamor of sailors and merchants resumed once more. Although the ports were filled on most days, the patches of water in between ships beckoned her to skim with her fingers. The sunlight refracted against its brilliant blue hills and valleys, and for a port city, it was one of the best parts of residing in Marseille. Most of the towns Papa and her traveled in were landlocked cities, save for a few mediterranean stops. It was a sacrifice, exchanging music performance for the twinkling, unknown waters she quickly realized would be their home. 

It wasn’t fully realized until she was walking through the main square, a bright day with the hum of violins and crystalline singing floating through the usually noisy city. Madame Giry and her papa exchanged a look, and with a firm tug of Papa’s hand, he easily fell into step behind her as Christine took an alternate route to the market, ensuring that the strings grew louder where she led them next. 

They reached the landing, a handful of violinists perched outside Meg’s favorite bistro, fewer vocalists standing at the forefront, their postures poised and their voices sublime. The customers sitting in the shade of the bistro had their ears perked to the merry whistling of bows against a string. Christine and Meg clapped along as the rhythm picked up, and by the end of it, they insisted on staying after to chat up the musicians. 

The memory of it impressed upon her the rest of the day and followed her into the evening, music returning to the forefront of her mind. 

“When will we perform again, Papa?” Christine inquired as she opened the pot that evening, it being her turn to cook for the household. She dipped a spoon and let the seafood broth of the bouillabaisse coat her tongue before shrugging and adding another helping of fennel seed. When her father didn’t say anything more, she turned back to look at him, “Don’t you miss it?”

“I would say not as much as you think, Lotte.” His attention didn’t stray from the letter in front of him; it must’ve been another bill by the way his mouth pulled into a thin line. 

Spooning the seafood stew into two bowls, she set it in front of her papa. At first, she decided against saying much of anything. Surely, he had good reason to lie to her about missing music. But her long-standing stubborn streak crept up on her, and she found her mind swimming with much more she wanted to say. 

Almost as if sensing her curiosity, Papa tucked away the letter completely and tugged the bowl closer to eat properly. 

“It is certainly different here.” 

“Different?” Christine echoed. “You work at the tavern and sometimes help out in the shipyard. And those plants out front. This is nothing like it was in Berlin, Vienna, Gothenburg!” 

Papa started to say something, but her racing thoughts would not permit it. 

“I know you felt it too, when the Merry Little Violins came through today. I even saw you talk to the pudgy man with the mustache, and you laughed together.” 

“Can an old man not have a jolly time with fellow musicians?” 

“You could be having it more often if we just went back to the company already. I like it here, but I miss it, Papa.” 

Papa didn’t say anything. When he lifted his gaze to hers, she knew there was a quiet admission there. 

By the time Christine abruptly turned away from him, Gustave clenched a fist and cursed at himself, all hidden away from his daughter’s view. 

Meg and Madame Giry entered the dining room then, and their conversation snuffed out entirely. Madame Giry began to talk of Paris, and there was a glimmer in Meg’s eyes as her mother went on. But Christine wasn’t processing the details, her thoughts lost to the increasing dread of never furthering her vocal education. Instead of the warmup of instruments and the sound of Madame Giry’s cane pounding the stage in time to the ballet dancers’ rhythm, the waves beating against the docks, the horns blasting every so often, and the clamor of shipbuilding and maintenance hammering away would be her everyday. 

And even worse, the decision was not in her hands. In a single day, her dreams were smoke; the wispy remains dissolving into the world, never to be breathed life into again. 

The rest of the dinner she spent clicking her spoon against the bowl and eating hurriedly, scrubbing the dishes with a heavy hand and letting her footfalls echo loudly as she went upstairs. She stamped to her shared room with Meg, sobbing into her hands as her friend slowly approached and sat on her respective bed across from hers. 

“He doesn’t care about what I have to say about all this. I thought we were just taking a break, Meg. A break! But Papa gave me a sad look, and I know what that means. It means we’ll never see music again. The world won’t hear our music the same.” Meg pursed her lips, and Christine immediately leapt to feet, wagging a stern finger as if she were her mother. “What? Marguerite Giry, you tell me what you know this instant!” 

“Maman made me swear,” Meg said, apprehensive. Christine’s glare must have been scathing for the young Giry’s hesitation pinched into indignation. “Oh, stop it, Christine. You know that I can’t keep anything from you for long.” Another pause. “It’s just that your papa told Maman that he misses his wife. France is where they met."

“I know that! But that didn’t stop him before,” she argued, growing indignant. “He always misses Mama.” 

“Don’t get snappish with me. I’m the one comforting you, aren’t I?” 

It was then Christine saw how Meg's eyes crept to the other side of the room. Peeking from the crack laid her neat pair of ballet slippers. Quickly stamping down her earlier ire, Christine murmured a quiet apology, ashamed at her selfishness and negligence.

“You miss performing your pirouettes and difficult jumps, don't you?" 

The young Giry remained quiet, and Christine understood Meg felt the absence of it deeply; how could she not? She met Meg when she cried into her hands over a failed grand jete leap during practice, cursing her legs for not cooperating with her. 

Ballet was the object of her adoration and her woes, much like how singing was Christine’s. 

Madame Giry was always harshest with Meg, but only because Meg put in her heart day in and day out to the dance. She took her mother's scoldings in stride not because she was her daughter, but because Meg would correct her mistakes way past the usual allotted practice time. Meg was most ardently dedicated to the art of performance, and for that, Christine loved her for it.

And yet, she could only dream of what that was like.

“I hope you dance again," whispered Christine, wistful.

Calm easily fell upon Meg’s features as she flopped onto her bed.

“Don’t worry; Maman and I will find a way. Just like you will, too." 

"Christine," Meg began again just as the lull had gone too comfortable, "Maman and I did find a way." She explained that her mother had secured a position at the Opera Populaire, a well-paying and perfectly fitting job as the opera house's new ballet instructor. The Populaire offered Meg admittance given she passed their auditions, but based on word of mouth alone from their company’s reputation, Christine knew the process would not be hard on Meg. Meg was talented and bright, after all.

But selfishly, a part of her raged. It was unfair; why did she feel like much of the life she loved was leaving her behind? 

"Okay, Meg." Meg looked fearful as Christine shook her head as she repeated, "Okay."

In a shaky exhale, she let her sorrows go. And then, Christine leapt to her feet, an image of a smiling Meg making her smile genuine. "You're going to be dancing again!" 

Meg laughed with Christine then. For Meg, she would set aside her petulant whining to celebrate her. After being her closest friend all these years, her mother giving guidance of her own in between, there was only room for joy when it came to their successes. She just knew if her time ever came, Meg would do the same.

The next morning, Madame Giry and Meg left the house to sort some paperwork about their lodgings in Paris in town, leaving Christine alone with her father once again. His shift at the docks began at noon, and they had the morning to spare together. Christine cooked breakfast and left it on the counter, finding chores around the house to tidy up or organize all the while ignoring her father reading the newspaper in her peripheries.

Her back to him, Papa cut through the quiet first.

“You must be quite upset at the news about the Girys.” 

“I’m happy for Meg and Madame.” 

“Christine,” Papa said, a weariness there, “you’re allowed to be sad. I know you prefer to have company, especially in a place you do not wish to reside in.” 

“But why do we have to? Do you hate playing the violin? Is that it?” 

Papa shook his head. “Did you know, your mama grew up here? We met right by the docks. She was singing quietly to herself, and you know how everything drowns out with the ships and everyone there. But I only heard her.” 

Christine stopped arranging the trinkets in the box then. Papa never gave illustrative details about Mama, his throat constricting when he spoke for too long. Maybe it was the fact they were back in her hometown, the town they met that eased his pain. Perhaps Christine pursuing singing abroad had brought him nothing but troublesome burdens and grim reminders of what he can't share with Mama.

“Was...Was she a good singer?” 

As Christine reached over to stack some new books she purchased the other day onto the shelves, she paused to examine the frame sitting on the table in front of it. 

Soft light accentuated fair cheeks and blonde ringlets framed a woman’s side profile, a slight expression with a hint of upturned corners of her lips. Beside her, a man with a matching half-serious expression, decked in a suit, dark hair, and violin in hand, sat upon a quaint but simple chair. 

The portrait of Evangeline Vernier Daaé and Gustave Daaé. 

They were young then, and if she glanced at her father, she would surely see the age written in the beginnings of wrinkles on his hand and face that were absent from the photograph.

“Heavens, no! She was horrendous and quite frankly, a far better seamstress than a singer.” 

Christine let out a groan, at a loss. “Then why are you telling me this?” 

“Because Marseille was a home for your mama and I once. Even if it wasn’t perfect, and we eventually left to travel, we were happy. And I want to make it a home for us, too.” 

“Meg said you missed Mama," Christine said with quiet admission.

Papa hummed. “It's more than that. I wish to see my daughter more often. Not just in the late evenings right before I tuck her into bed. But I understand you love music, too. You love singing, is that right, Little Lotte?” Papa waited for her affirmative nod. He nodded in kind before snapping as if he discovered a grand, novel theory. “Then I will remedy this situation. A vocal instructor! It’s the least I could do, after asking such a selfish favor.” 

It hit her then. It was not for Mama. He missed her, but he didn’t miss her enough to return to Marseille. 

He returned _for her._

Ever the crybaby, tears sprung from behind her eyelids. “It isn’t selfish, you know. I've been the selfish one." 

"No, my child," he chuckled. "You are merely overeager and ambitious." 

Whirling around, she embraced her papa.

Christine ignored the calendar, making each day worthy of celebration, not dread. Papa convinced Madame Giry to let Meg and her go out into the town more often than usually permitted, and they spent their days shopping and chatting to friendly sailors lunching by the water. 

And then the week came when Meg moved to Paris; for her mother to instruct, and for her to dance. She begged Christine to come along, but Christine would not be persuaded, sneaking a small glance at her father humming away, tending to his garden.

"Well," Meg clapped her hands, and Christine thought it to be too cheery considering that they would be parting for some time, "if you are ever in need of music or a friend, you know where to find me."

With the spring that Meg left her side, the DeChagnys arrived.


	2. Raoul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! Thanks for sticking around for ch. 2, aka the chapter I give Raoul rights. I know, I know. More domestic set up, but the next chapter may entice you. Overall, if you were wondering when events pick up, I'm (so far) planning for that to be chapter 5.

True to his word, her father hired a retired musical instructor deep in the main town. Professor Valerius and Madame Valerius were kinder than she deserved. From thereon, she attended lessons with Professor Valerius thrice a week, and on one particular day, a carriage blocked her usual route back home. Longing to rest her aching feet after standing for the past hour, she stared at the carriage and its horses for a heartbeat.

And it was all it took for a boy, seemingly her age, to poke his head out the window.

"Hey, you!" He called out and she met blue eyes a shade lighter than hers. Although she was merely nineteen, she prepared to scurry away from the stranger the way she was taught until he added, pointing to the ground below her."You dropped your scarf."

She hadn't even wanted to bring it today. The summer scorched her feet on the stones if she dared walk barefoot too long. But with the ocean breeze especially strong today and the remnants of yesterday's storm in the air, Papa tugged his old scarf around her neck until it was snug and all but shoved a coat into her hands. A precaution, he said!

 _Precaution?_ Christine wondered as she stooped to retrieve Papa's scarf, loosely throwing it over her shoulders. _More like a precaution from pretty boys._

From above, the boy protested. Within seconds, he stood in front of her, polished shoes and pressed suit clothes a size too large for him, gloved hands securing the red article until he nodded, a curve of his lip announcing his satisfaction with his work.

"There," he said, and Christine snapped to look at his face, realizing she had been staring for too long, "not only am I a 'pretty boy', but I am also a 'pretty gentleman'. At least I hope."

A hand flew to her mouth. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Yes, but fear not mademoiselle. I, too, regard you as quite the pretty girl," he offered his hand. "Now, would you do me the honor of accompanying you back home and granting me your name?"

Before she could reason with herself, an affirmative answer flew out of her mouth.

Blond hair and an easy smile, it didn't take much for Christine to feel charmed by Raoul DeChagny. Curiosity drew her to him, and from there, a companionship was born. He hung around her small apartment enough to pick up on Gustave's nickname, and he took much pleasure in parroting it back to her from thereon. Other days, they met after her lessons and would walk to the beach, Raoul insisting that he never got to see it as often as he would like. They returned before sunset, wary of the crime rates from the Corsican families on the rise. But she knew Raoul would protect her, and that was enough.

It would not last long, though. The Comte DeChagny brought his youngest son for a summer-long foray into the makings of a business, and with their Marseille summer home and the ports at their disposal, he saw no better opportunity. Christine never saw the comte, save for faraway glimpses whenever their carriage passed on the days Raoul was too busy to see her, and she suspected that Raoul wanted to keep it that way, a nervousness about him whenever she joked about marching up to the comte and telling him off for being hard on Raoul.

Regardless, the days passed by without her knowing it, but not one went without joy in it. She long accepted that he would leave. She was tired of ruminating on the topic longer than it deserved, the inevitable being a useless agony to bear for her tender heart. Try as she might, it did not diminish her fond attachment to Raoul, and the romantic in her secretly wished this summer was the start, not the end.

Well into August, days before his departure, they sat side by side in the sand, a gingham picnic blanket and their forgotten dishes sitting a ways further inland. Here they could smell the salt of the ocean, and for some reason, Raoul always preferred it like this. As they looked out to the steady waves lapping the shore, she remembered when she was last mesmerized by Marseille's beauty; it reminded her of all the dreams when she traveled with Papa when she believed this town was a mere stop on a bigger journey.

Now, she couldn't imagine living elsewhere. It was startling to think in a few months, she had come to accept Marseille as the place for her and her Papa to thrive together, albeit in unconventional ways. Christine learned to mend dresses from Madame Valerius and Papa was at the shipyard. While their spare time had some music, their livelihoods were a far cry from what she could have ever imagined. He even cultivated a garden for God's sake! There was no going back from that.

Before she knew it, Christine asked, "Raoul, what do you care most about life?"

"Here I thought you were a mere storyteller, a bookworm! Now you're a philosophy enthusiast, Lotte?"

Christine glanced at him, trying her best to look as bored as Professor Valerius on his bad days. "You'll find that I'm quite serious."

Distressed, Raoul quickly looked at her, searching for malice in her face. When he found none, and she realized her little trick succeeded, they both burst into laughter. After they calmed down, Raoul shrugged and answered something about taking over his family's business, surmising his answer to some economics, trades, commerce–her head spun.

"Long story short," he summarized articulately but rotely as if he had answered this question a million times, "money."

Christine felt her eyes widen, incredulous. "Money? All you care about is _money_?" She thought of Papa's disdain whenever emerging from a meeting from musical administration, cursing money for the reason half of their programs would not run the way their group intended it. It amazed her that Raoul, someone so caring and bright, would become one of them.

"I have to," said Raoul as he tore his gaze away to look down at his hands. Christine worried she offended him, Sounding a bit more indignant, he added, "Besides, you need money to live."

She knew she should have taken offense to his tone, but she couldn't care. He was just being silly again, like how he teased her for her stories.

"You're right. Papa says money is for surviving, and I believe him. It's why some days are harder than most."

Her mind unwittingly flitted to the strain in her father's voice after he would come home from a gig at the tavern.

"Fools," her papa had shouted, and she knew by the string of curses pulled from his mouth, that he had not seen her pad her way into the room that evening many nights ago. "I would never have suffered this treatment in Paris! And yet here I am, one the drunks! The village idiot, a shadow of greatness…"

Christine frowned. It was like a stone sinking in her stomach as she replayed the words, fumbling for the words to explain its meaning above a financial lesson.

_It means he isn't as happy as I thought._

Firmly, she shook her head and reminded herself that her Papa wanted to spend his days here. He said the music scenes weren't as scarce as she claimed, and again, he always reassured her that he would rather pick her over the music.

Finally confident in herself again, Christine held her head high.

"But for living...Papa says music is for living. It's what gives him life, even if he isn't doing a whole lot of it now. I'm the same way; and one day, I shall take it to the stage!" She gave a great throw of her arms into the air. "So, Raoul, I think there is more to life than just economics and trade and what have you."

He stared at her as if she had multiple heads, like the ones in Professor Valerius' storybooks.

"You live in a fantasy world."

"But I am happy, aren't I?" Christine rose to stretch her limbs to the sky. Looking down over her shoulder, Raoul remained still. Panic overwhelmed her then. Christine reached forward but did not dare touch his hand.

"Please don't be upset, Raoul! Surely, you must live for something else, too."

"Little Lotte, you know that I am a DeChagny. I may not be the oldest and the smartest like Philippe, but I have got a business to run someday."

Abruptly, Christine faced away from him. She knew she was being childish, unfair, even, considering she subsequently begged for his understanding.

But she couldn't help but snap at him. "Yes, yes, you will become a vicomte when your father passes away and Philippe will be a comte. This I know."

"I am not trying to make you angry with me," he said with a nudge to her forearm, silently begging her to sit down, "but I am telling you what is reality, Lotte."

"Oh, I don't know. I just wish you talked to me like Raoul, the boy who is my dear friend. I'm not some silly girl who doesn't understand how the world works. I'm just Christine."

The ocean roared. Her blonde friend did not immediately say anything more, and she panicked briefly that she was in the wrong.

"If you want to know so badly," he uttered at last, "I've always loved the sea."

Christine considered his words before falling back into the sand beside him.

"Then you shall set sail on it like a handsome pirate!"

Raoul laughed then. "You would like that, wouldn't you? A swashbuckling pirate with a silly hat and some pretty words to fall prey to your prettier siren voice?" He leaned back on his hands, furrowing them deeper into the sand grains. Christine didn't miss the longing look as he stared at a point she couldn't see on the horizon, but she followed his gaze anyway, wishing to see it, too.

"And you know what else?" he said slowly as if testing out the sound of the words. "I've always wanted to join the navy."

Maybe it was just her, but a tingle ran through her body, the same kind she felt before as she stared down the glittering yet faraway waters of southern Italy months ago. Feet close to the edge, it was up to her to jump in.

"You would be an excellent officer."

When she said it, a curious look passed over Raoul, and she knew he must have felt it, too, in his own way.

Seemingly pleased, at least, judging by the grin stretching across his boyish features, he leaned closer towards her, and she realized he might mean more to her than a simple friend.

"Do you like the sea, too, Little Lotte?"

With a light giggle and a secret smile, she ruffled his salt-streaked hair, warmth burgeoning in her chest as she told him, "Only a little bit."

Her feet burrowed deeper in the sand, letting it tickle her ankles. Somewhere in her mind, she was at the precipice of an Italian cliffside. Waiting. Wondering. Worrying.

* * *

_October 4, 1888_

_Little Lotte,_

_I am so glad you still think of me fondly! It is perfectly sound with my own thoughts. This weekend's end, Philippe bought his newest mistress a red scarf, and it reminded me of you. Her name is Sorelli, a ballet dancer at the Garnier's company. Philippe's a patron and has been trying to convince me to join in as well, but I am not so sure. I am not as musical as you, but perhaps I should start trying for you. Now, wouldn't you like that! Regardless, she wore the scarf today during dinner, and I wished desperately it was you instead._

_Yes, I know. I know there is only so much a memory of a red scarf can tether us together for however long, but I am willing to hold onto it. Even when you have long forgotten, I will remember for the two of us. After all, I need something to ponder on when Father's giving me an earful! You know how he gets, always so uptight, never a day without a good holler! What I would give to return to the country and reunite with you. I am weary of doing anything ever. How is your father? Is he doing well? Surely he is not as irritating as mine._

_Now I'm doing that foolish digressing thing Father hates. But it's not so foolish if it means I'm thinking of you, I think._

_Yours,_

_Raoul_

* * *

Gustave pushed himself off the ground, brushing the dirt from his trousers. he allowed himself to catch his breath from the sudden movement and procuring his pocket watch, he read the time and looked at his sprightly daughter, curled up in the plain day frock Madame Giry gifted her last Christmas. She sprawled on a picnic blanket in her usual spot in the grass, her book of stories in hand.

He sighed to himself. His daughter always loved in between worlds and words, didn't she?

As much as he hated to break her trance as she pored over the words of no doubt a new gripping gothic read from Madame Valerius' library, he did not pay Professor Valerius with what small disposable income had left to be squandered. Gustave cleared his throat.

"Lotte, aren't you supposed to be with your vocal tutor right about now?"

As he speculated on Christine further, even from the distance she sat, she was not reading the contents of her book at all. A separate, far more crisp paper peeked from her worn fairy tale tome.

Strange, how quickly Christine was growing up. It was only yesterday she cared about the color of the holland pinafores she wore, and now, here she was holding onto every word of Raoul DeChagny, and not at all discreetly, too!

"What time is it?"

"Half-past 3."

"Is that so?"

Gustave rolled his eyes. It was the same, absent-minded tone she used when she was usually reading her stories and feigning her attention to him, only this time, she was entertaining the flowery prose of a _boy._

He only hoped that the boy watched himself with his daughter. They had their talk already, and yet, the older Daaé worried about the young DeChagny's indiscretion.

"Christine," he said with a touch of impatience, "your lesson with the good professor was thirty minutes ago."

His daughter's head snapped up, and her widened, frenzied gaze was too endearing to even think of raising his voice. The book snapped shut and she leaped to her feet, hauling her skirts up as she sputtered excuses and made a mad dash back towards the house. Within the minute, Christine ran past him again, blowing Gustave a perfunctory kiss.

That girl with her head in the clouds!

Gustave stared after her and laughed to himself until laughter and lightness turned sour, and he forced himself to stop, grounding himself as a vision of his late wife filled his senses.

If Evangeline were still around, Christine would get away with far less of her dreamer spells. Maybe Christine would be more grounded, more present. But all the same, if his dear Evangeline was romanced with his purple prose and musician soul, she would have been endeared to Christine.

* * *

_May 10, 1889_

_Little Lotte!_

_Why, is that jealousy nestled in your neat little cursive, or perhaps am I imagining it? No matter. Whatever it is, I shall have you know, no, I do not have a mistress of my own at present. Parties are another matter entirely. Flirting, yes. Indulgences? Of course. But there is nothing substantial, and I am not exactly keen on any commitment for now. I daresay you're the most commitment I've ever given a woman, and yet, a third of our time has been spent over ink and paper! And yourself? Is there anyone who catches Little Lotte's blue eyed, wide-eyed gaze? At the very least, reassure me that whoever the lucky man is, that he is at least handsomer than me! I will not accept any less for my dearest companion._

_Yours,_

_Raoul_

She could not repress a girlish laugh as she snatched the paper from her friend's clutches. The Opera Populaire was in between productions, and finally, Meg and Madame Giry had no other business to attend to in Paris.

"'Dearest companion'!" quoted Christine, aghast. "Can a boy act coy, Meg?"

"You never know, sometimes it's hard to tell between coy or downright stupid!" her friend answered. "Must you continue this tedious, long-distance charade? I mean, what if he's ugly?"

Christine smacked Meg's upper arm.

"Have you been paying attention? I've _met_ him and he isn't ugly. But why should that matter?"

"You're not even past this ridiculous letter courtship, and you're already defending him," Christine didn't need to look at her friend to see the pout souring her face.

"Whether he is courting me or not, and Raoul is _not,_ he is my friend." Christine folded the letter back into its respective envelope and set it on the table. "I'll have you know, Meg Giry, if Raoul ever spoke ill of you, I would defend you just the same! If not more."

That seemed to dissolve Meg's tension, the ballerina leaping to her feet, twirling gracefully on her toes.

"Christine—no—Christophe! My dashing prince to my rescue."

"I'm off to save the Garnier's _troublesome_ future prima ballerina. _Again._ "

Christine laughed brightly, collapsing in her chair in a fit of giggles at the same time Meg fell to sit on her knees. Meg lowered herself to rest her hands on Christine's chair arm, a different kind of playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, the type she wore before bursting into relaying some mystical tale or riveting news—true or not. Shoving at her friend's arm, prodding her to come out with what she had to say, Meg broke loose.

"Perhaps it is not exclusively me who has a promising future in Paris."

With reverence, Meg procured a sealed envelope with an address she had long familiarized written across the top corner. She had written to Meg about it for months after all, and seeing it in such official scrawl took her breath away. Christine received it numbly, opening it before her, eyes darting to absorb its contents.

Her life was not meant to be contained after all.

At first, there was not a sound.

Gustave fumbled with his violin case, and at precisely the second he entered their home, a sharp yell punctuated the air. Situating his violin on the floor, he dashed to the dining room, watching his daughter jumble her speech into incoherent " _thank yous_ " and various, praising epithets to describe her blonde-haired friend.

"Oh, Meg, you are simply sunshine and nectar itself! You did not have to do this."

"But I did, Christine, I did! Everyone knows just how good you are. This is your time."

He breathed a heavy exhale to recenter himself. The evidence before him, it was unmistakable the yell was in fact, squealing, girlish laughter.

"What on earth is this all about, girls! I thought something had happened," Gustave said from the doorway, hand against his chest to soothe a small pain that grew there. He worried Christine caught the slip up in his expression—the girl was too perceptive for her own good—but she was caught up in the throes of her excitement to scrutinize it any further.

"Monsieur Daaé, it's a good thing you did," Meg exchanged a giddy look with his daughter, "because Christine's got an audition with the Garnier!"

He blinked at the pair, and he hated the guilt settling in his gut. Perhaps he should have tried harder than mere vocal lessons. There was an opportunity, wasn't there? Gustave had known Christine longed to join him on the stage one day, at the start, her unhappiness transparent with their current settlement. Was it foolish of him to rip her away from what she loved the most? It was no small cost when he gave it up, but he spent most of his life pursuing that first love. Then came his second love in the name of Evangeline and his final and most precious one named Christine. And yet, he neglected to nurture Christine's shared calling to the stage, especially when he might've had the chance. Of course, mere vocal lessons would not be enough for his Lotte.

Even after spending many more hours with Christine, he had yet to be the perfect father for her.

"Mon Dieu! Little Lotte is a little diva now, isn't she?" Gustave straightened himself, giving his happy daughter a knowing look. "No doubt a grown brat such as my Lotte will fit in with all the city divas."

"Papa, don't be mean!"

Christine pouted. Twenty and she was still pouting! He chuckled to himself as he made his way to where the girls occupied the parlor. They chatted until Madame Giry fetched her daughter after attending to matters in town, the sun sunken in the sky.

It was bedtime now. Despite his daughter's age, far too old to be enchanted by outlandish tales and childish songs, he sat at the edge of her bed, tucking his grown Lotte in.

"Papa," said Christine, and all he could see as she rubbed her eyes was his little girl, and it brought tears to his eyes. "We'll go together soon. To Paris."

Gustave pressed a kiss to his daughter's temple and said nothing more.


	3. Angel

For all their traveling, Paris, strangely, never appeared on their list. When Papa first left Sweden, he frequented the city, enamored by its support of the arts. Swept up in the bustling scene of international musicians and artists, it was the perfect place for him. She often wondered why he would leave it or never seek another opportunity to return here instead of Marseille when the opportunity presented itself, but she accepted his stories nevertheless. Save for his superstitious ones. 

"I may not be able to come on this trip," he told her with a weak ruffle of her hair, "but I will send the Angel of Music to guide you." 

She gave him a stern look for that. "Have you been talking to Madame Valerius? I'm not a child anymore." 

As much as she adored the professor’s wife for all her riveting stories, loaned books, and Scandinavian tunes, the professor’s wife entertained a lot of superstition. Christine often caught herself believing in her suspect tales about black cats and old ghosts, a part of her hoping to undo that part of her naivety.

"No. But it is comforting to know someone believes in you."

Papa’s description of Paris paled when it met with her witness. She wished he was here to tell her, but when she caught his fit of dry coughing into his handkerchief, she insisted she go ahead without him. Sitting in the small carriage Madame Giry had fetched for her, Christine was fixated by the world outside of the vehicle.

The Eiffel Tower, nearly three years old, erected in the distance, and the Opera Populaire, the Garnier, a little over a decade old, coming upon them. Christine read in the papers about its careful and painstakingly long construction in the papers, by its eponymous architect, and photography captured the Populaire's marvel. 

Apart from such landmarks, urban life sprawled before her. The soaring heights in Christian appeal. The majesty of flared roofs and domineering columns. The grand boulevards denoted rapid economic expansion throughout the past decades, or so, that is what Raoul said when she last asked him to describe his home. Raoul! She would see him soon, too, and she could hardly wait for their reunion.

Gasping small breaths every now and then in awe, she felt each intake of air, each new sight pervading, feeding, igniting her spirit. 

The Hansom cab slowed and the ornate view of the Garnier loomed over her.

Christine bit her lip with a small grin as she was helped out of the small carriage. Gazing upwards at the opera house, awash with awe and hyperactivity all once, Christine did her best not to trip over her own feet as she was helped out of the small carriage. Should she succeed, she could envision a home here. With Papa, with music, with life.

* * *

_June 20, 1889_

_Christine,_

_I must apologize for my tardy reply. Philippe is shirking his duties—is it apparent now that Sorelli is no passing season, which is a miracle in itself. I am surprised Philippe hasn't moved on already, what with Father breathing down his neck. Must romance be this difficult?_

_Best of luck at your audition for the Populaire! I have no doubt of your impending acceptance. Please tell me all about it over dinner. I shall pick you up from the Populaire shortly after personally, eager for your arrival._

_Yours,_

_Raoul_

* * *

The Phantom emerged from his home. The day ahead of him was to be full of nuisances: Detective Nadir Khan and meetings with fellow shady characters dealing in arms and drugs. _Wonderful._ One man’s incessant nagging versus the held-at-gunpoint suspicion of many. He wondered which one would last longer with– _obviously the armed criminals._

Somewhere on stage, Carlotta warmed up with her trills, the Firmin and Andre encouraging her shaky vibrato into sharper territory with their ignoramus praise. As he walked past the backstage walls, it was as though her disappointing voice followed him at his heels, and the Phantom’s pace picked up. No use in delaying his rendezvous with the Carbone family's associates.

There was a clamor joined by other warm up exercises–more singers by the sounds of it–joining in.

Ah, so it appeared the Populaire was holding auditions for direct admits. He had been slacking on keeping with the opera house’s affairs with his newest assignment requiring more careful coordination, but he had suspected they were doing an open house of sorts this week. A new, unpolished voice rung out at every five minute interval, and they soon became nothing but white noise to accompany his exit.

Then this fourth girl walked on stage. A sweeping soprano with a minor weakness here and there.

Curiosity slowed him, but enchantment rooted him. Whoever instructed her before clearly neglected her posture and how she switched between her chest and head, but nevertheless...she was a marvel, a gemstone waiting for their jeweler to wipe away the blemishes to reveal their full shine. 

He lived in this blasted opera house, didn't he? It could very well be him. He could be a mere voice to her, and she would be none the wiser…

He did not believe in heaven and all its bells and whistles, but this may have been the closest he's been to it. By god, how did those insufferable managers find an angel? The Phantom turned on his heel to peer below.

It was from a distance, but it was enough. She was a petite thing on stage, uncertainty in her posture, shoulders a bit lower than what a singer should aspire to. Dark brown curls framing a sweet face. He had encountered women more typically fairer than her, with many more men at their feet. No doubt this soprano, this girl, would have her own suitors based on her softened features, save for the neatly rounded curve of her nose. Pretty as she appeared, her tone faltered but still emerged through. A mere sprout now, and if nurtured correctly, a beautiful bloom. 

He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to her. A few amendments would make her acceptance undeniable, even to these foolish managers.

_You are nearly there, mon ange_ , he told her as he threw his voice to her ear, and then he instructed, as concisely and clearly as possible, the necessary adjustments for her to win the managers over completely.

Girl number four stumbled until she signaled for her accompaniment to stop. Carlotta, laden in gilded and bejeweled extravagance– _hopes of physical manifestation?_ –waved her hand fan in outrage, sniffing the air as if the world inconvenienced her greatly. The managers began their squabbling, and while her abrupt stopping wasn’t foreseen, saving the situation would be no difficult matter.

Reyer. The lanky musical director never approved of all that the Phantom has _altered; in_ fact, he had made his distaste for an 'unknown third-party' dipping his hand into his production’s affairs. That, however, never stopped the occasional mutual consultation vis-a-vis his assistant. The man trusted in music more than business, and for music’s sake, Erik was assured that the director would do as _he_ instructed. 

Satisfaction dared to tug at the corners of the Phantom’s lips. The most optimistic person would not consider it a smile, but it had to be, with the musical director urging the girl to restart her audition piece with an undulating wave of the hand.

The piano began and she sang. Irrevocably, the air changed. Then came the delighted murmurs–whispers of her name he now paid close attention to–and she immediately adjusted herself, spanning more space with her resonance and presence. Raptly, he watched from above, opening his ears and welcoming her voice.

_“There will never be a day that_

_I won't think of you!”_

As she ascended into an ethereal cadenza, he fell against the wall, letting her name wash over him. An opposing reaction demanded by the universe. A muse with all the power of a goddess.

At last, Christine descended from her audition song, a distinct pounding in her ears. Although the opera house was mostly empty, the lights not nearly as bright as during a real performance, a thrill traveled up her spine. She was close, and if the managers liked her, she could ask about any openings in the orchestra. Surely, the name Gustave Daaé meant something to these two gentlemen. 

Dimly, drowned out by her racing thoughts, Firmin and Andre spoke animatedly to their music director, La Carlotta exclaiming an interjection every now and then. She at first strained to hear their remarks, but again, that distinctive, silken voice surfaced above the noise of her heartbeat and the opera house’s chatter. None of it now seemed to matter.

_Christine Daaé…_ a curious tilt, and her long, brown curls swayed to the side as her eyes searched for reason across the scarce expanse of an imaginary opera house audience. _Brava_ , _Brava,_ the voice said. _Bravissima._

* * *

Christine navigated the dimly lit backstage, retracing her steps to the ballerinas’ dressing rooms. Meg showed her the way before she scampered to make it to ballet practice. But even after reciting her friend's directions to herself, her head remained jumbled. 

A woman with a stately posture and shiny, ebony hair tied atop her head emerged from one of the doors, her hand darting out to alight on Christine’s forearm.

“Are you Christine Daaé? The Swedish girl who was singing just now?”

Urgency and fascination colored her mature tone, and now that they were in closer proximity, Christine couldn’t help but stare. Unconsciously, Christine’s fingers twisted a lock of her curly brown hair.

“Y-yes. Do I know you?”

She should be used to this. Many years spent traveling should have prepared her for interacting with fellow performers, but she had taken it upon herself to read an article’s advice column, preaching how that it took more than talent and hard work to fly in this industry. It took grit and networking. And yet, when confronted with someone who looked and dressed important, Christine could not gather her wits about her quick enough.

"Sorelli Denola. Prima ballerina here, and I am what you say.... _on terms_ with the handsomest patron here.” She winked as if it were grand news, and Christine returned it with a vacant stare.

“Sorelli,” Christine echoed and after the name left her mouth, she fully pivoted to face the ballerina. “You’re dating Raoul’s brother!”

It took some mental parsing to retrieve the memory, but Raoul spoke indifferently of her; at times, if she was being intrusive or stirring the pot with the Comte DeChagny, a nuisance.

“Your boy has mentioned me, has he? I always knew he had a small crush on me,” the older woman smirked mischievously before giving Christine a friendly arm pat. “I’m only teasing you! He talks _nonstop_ about you. That young DeChangy is certainly sweet on you, I imagine."

Christine laughed but didn’t quite meet Sorelli’s gaze. 

“So have you been training long? You’re so young, and yet, you had our Prima Donna feeling threatened already.” 

When she caught some of La Carlotta’s complaints on her way off the stage, Christine would have thought it the opposite, that _her_ potential hiring was at stake because of the prima donna’s boisterous, critical claims. But she remembered the voice from...somewhere in her head? The theatre? Somewhere, someone believed in her. Whether it was herself, an angel, or a figment of her imagination, it was all she needed to tune Carlotta out and hold her head up high. 

“All my life, but a bit more seriously as of late," Christine replied, and though she was nothing but honest, she still glanced back and forth. "And please don't get the wrong idea. I was only trying out for the chorus. I don’t want to take anyone’s livelihood.”

“I hope not," said Sorelli. “Carlotta’s a feisty one.” 

They shared an awkward, stilted laugh, and with Meg's prompt arrival, Christine was spared of thinking of another flimsy conversation topic to relate to the pretty principal ballerina. Once they were a great distance away, Christine glanced quickly behind them before answering Meg’s queries, explaining the connection.

“And apparently,” added Christine, “I will be seeing her at dinner.” 

Meg frowned. “Don’t you want to? All the girls here really like La Sorelli."

Christine didn’t miss the implicit, _And so do I,_ underlying her friend’s words.

"It's not that I don't _not_ like her. She is…" Christine absentmindedly touched her hair again, and then poked her cheek, thinking it a bit too thick to her liking. "I feel so different from her."

"You shouldn't be, really. She may be our prima ballerina, but she came from nothing like a lot of us. Who knows? You may come to like her. Jammes and the girls go to her when they think they hear the ghost, and we both know how easily freaked out you are.”

A shiver went down her spine. Could it have been a ghost guiding her earlier? He who called her mon ange, his angel?

“ _Ghost_?” 

"Why, of course, the opera ghost!"

Then Meg abruptly halted. “I’ve completely forgotten to tell you about that, haven’t I? Oh, I didn't want to scare you before your audition, but the rumors say...” 

As they passed by the maintenance crew and costume interns along the narrow hallways, Meg recounted the tales of the phantom of the opera. How it started with small changes to the sets to entire production overhauls. According to the chief of the flies, it was all but a man. A very ugly and ill-tempered man.

Christine thought it an ostentatious name and an outright rude way to describe someone they never met right until Meg lowered her voice into a near whisper, conspiratorial.

There was a rumor he was a criminal, too. A renown underworld dealer who also happened to be a rather _aggressive_ patron of the arts, going by the same name: Phantom.

"Is he a man or a ghost?" 

"None. Both," Meg threw her hands up when Christine gave her a skeptical look. "I don't know! I'm just repeating what I was told, but I believe it. One time, the piano played all by itself!" 

"So...a ghost." 

Wait until Madame Valerius heard all about this, Christine thought.

"Not the point, Christine! The point is, either way, you’re going to be scared and come running to _someone_." 

Christine wrinkled her nose. "Okay, okay! Either way, the thought of _any_ of that is wretched anyway, man or not. If I ever work here, you better make sure I don't get left behind in the dark!"

Meg rolled her eyes and said, _that much is obvious_ , with enough jocular attitude in it that Christine knew her friend sincerely meant it.

Papa always warned her not to wander by the docks at night. One time, Christine and Meg ran past their curfew, cutting along the edge of the port to get to home quicker. The gunshots and the scuffling of bodies nearly missing them rattled her since, especially combined with Madame Valerius' overdone, superstitious tales of what else laid in darkness. Papa gave her an even louder earful about it when he realized the source of her occasional nightmares, quickly figuring out that she and Meg had done something they shouldn’t have. She had gotten over her fears quickly, but there was still a lingering apprehension at the back of her mind.

The space opened up into the Populaire's ballerina practice room, lights flooding her senses after being backstage for so long. While Christine watched Meg stretch for a solo warm-up, Christine elected to restudy her music in the meantime, humming quietly to herself. Although she was comforted by Meg's presence in such a vast, empty space, her mind drifted to the voice from earlier. 

_Angel? Ghost? Or Phantom?_

_“It is comforting to know someone believes in you,”_ is what Papa said. And she believed in Papa. And on stage, earlier, someone else did, too.

"My angel of music,” She breathed, her verdict ringing clear against all logic, as she clutched a palm over her steadying heartbeat. 

Madame Valerius would be proud, indeed. Even if her concession was partly self-delusion.

_Creak!_

Christine shot up, glancing to the sides of her and behind her, finding nothing but empty, unoccupied space, and the wall. In the wide mirror, Meg gave her a peculiar glance, but she shrugged it off and resumed their respective activities until the hour for dinner approached. Reuniting with Raoul sent her nerves on fire, and she needed the quiet time to herself until then. Baby steps. Conquering one thing at a time.

By the end of Meg’s extra practice, she was sweating and in dire need of a shower, and so, after reassuring Meg that she had a better sense of direction this time around, Christine made her way to the exit. But she took a detour, taking a turn that Meg pointed out earlier, offhandedly mentioning a small chapel within the opera house. A small prayer for luck would not hurt. For luck, for guidance, for courage. All of these things to help her succeed and to protect her heart tonight.

Her hand close to pushing the door, Christine froze once the sound of a cane slamming against stone boomed and echoed in the chamber. 

“You made it my business the moment you showed your favor!” Madame Giry’s voice was low but audible enough for her bite to cut across the chapel's sacred silence. Christine crept closer, desperate to catch the poor soul who sparked Madame’s wrath. “I have known her for years, Monsieur, and believe me, you do not want to know how pro– _what_?” 

All at once, her tirade dropped off. Hush overtook the hallowed space, and Christine shivered as it seemed to press in on her, as if sensing her presence and condemning her.

Christine scuffled in the chapel then, hastily knocking on the door before striding to the older woman as if she were a scolded child. Taking in the surroundings, a few candles burned behind Madame, a simple stained glass window filtering in the light, colorful icon tapestries compensated for the cold stone surrounding the sacred room. To her great surprise, there was no other person there, save for Madame Giry...who was frowning at her most impatiently.

“How long were you waiting for me?” Christine bit her lip at Madame’s sharpness and cursed herself for it. Would she never outgrow the small part of her that feared her scoldings?

With no reason to lie, Christine explained it in a few words– _not very long_ –presuming that Madame may have been too embarrassed to admit that she was raging privately to herself. Although, Madame never seemed to hold back on anyone. Perhaps Paris changed the older woman. Lastly, she reminded her of the dinner with the DeChagnys, and the peculiar wandering of Madame’s gaze puzzled her.

Christine found herself asking, “Do you not approve of Raoul?” 

”No, child, it is not that,” at this, she sighed, her sour mood disintegrating in a breath. “Be sure to return before it gets too late, and allow Meg to escort you to le segnieur’s carriage.”

“She's resting in the dormitory. It isn’t any trouble to–”

“Meg will be escorting you.”

Finality colored Madame Giry’s voice, and she was not about to test its limits. Swallowing, Christine backed out of the chapel, giving it one final perusal, and scurried to find Meg. 

Christine thanked Meg for the hundredth time as the young ballerina left Christine at the steps, facing the very same carriage she had months ago. The door opened, and Raoul sprung his arms wide open to receive her in a sweeping hug. When he at last put her down, her ears burned, feeling many eyes on her. 

The main DeChagny Estate was incomparable to their Marseille property. Any dark spot or cobweb in the house dared not touch the pristine home. Their household staff and gilded decor doubled. While she seldom found herself at the DeChagnys’ quaint Marseille home, there was no preparation for the scale and opulence that bathed this one. Glancing down at the simple day dress, she smoothed the fabric down, slightly frustrated by the wrinkles prevailing in ridges.

Thankfully, relief unexpectedly came in the form of La Sorelli, who did not dress nearly as lavishly as Carlotta like she thought she might, and despite their awkward conversation from earlier, the prima ballerina welcomed her warmly as though the estate were her own. 

Philippe emerged from a room Christine now noticed, and she shook his hand firmly, noting a much more grave, but mature air about him compared to his brother. He looked the type of man to give important counsel and because of his expertise and diplomacy, easily gained favor from everyone, DeChagny or not. Privately, Christine thought she much preferred Raoul’s boyish charm and openness. 

The seat at the head of the table remained empty. Christine turned to look at Raoul, and he graciously but stiffly answered that he simply would not be coming tonight. From then on, despite being the next inheritor of the Comte title, Philippe enjoyed every bit at playing the entertainer. He regaled Christine with tales of his youth and spared nothing from his arsenal of embarrassing stories about Raoul, snorting about his brother’s attachment to a soiled lovey. 

“For the life of him, he would not let it go!” The vicomte raised his glass, laughing so contagious that Christine caught a bit of it as she giggled discreetly into her cup as well. Raoul caught it, though, his head whipping to the side to glance at her and groaning regretfully.

“Philippe,” Sorelli entreated with a sympathetic glance Raoul’s way, “you’re humiliating your brother in front of his mistress.” 

The effect was immediate. Simultaneously, Christine ceased her teasing as Raoul quieted his complaints. 

“Oh, I am not his–”

“We are not yet–”

“Regardless,” Philippe cut in as though no one had interrupted him at all, his glass now empty, “I should congratulate you on finding a new lovey to hold on. To hell with what our father thinks about the Garnier! This chorus girl seems great.” He gave a friendly wink Christine’s way before descending into story from his boyhood, Sorelli the most interested party in more than one manner with the way she gazed upon the taller DeChagny.

Lowering her voice so that only Raoul could hear, Christine asked. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It sounds backhanded,” Raoul sighed wearily, “but trust me, I know my brother. He is sincere.” 

“He compared me to a soiled lovey!”

“Hey! I cherished that lovey!”

They held each other’s stare as if it were a competition for their honor. Then Raoul cracked another one of his boyish grins, and everything from Marseille rushed back to her at once. Her heartbeat raced once again. Did she want to jump in?

The moment of reflection was ripped away from her with the presentation of dessert, and she used the opportunity to jump back into Sorelli and Philippe’s conversation. However, when she started to tune in again, their chairs were scooted close.

“My star," Philippe cooed, "I’d do anything for you.”

“ _Anything_?” Sorelli smirked as she walked her fingers up his chest. 

Christine’s cheeks heated up, the couple’s suggestive glances and invasive body language not lost on her, and positively not helping her solve her internal dilemma any quicker.

She muttered once more to Raoul, “They’re rather comfortable, aren’t they?” Suddenly, all of Raoul’s passing complaints about their romantic melodrama seemed less petty and more appropriate. Christine was never one to dwell upon others’ affairs, but with the opera house’s prima ballerina cozying up to Raoul’s brother in front of her, she was quickly making an exception.

“Believe me,” Raoul said with a clear of his throat, “this is mild for them.”

She didn’t even want to think about what ‘extreme’ looked like with these two! La Sorelli would potentially be her colleague someday, and Christine loathed to remember her as someone expressly lovesick and intimate as this. It was strange that if she ever found someone willing to court her, she should act just as well as these two–preferably, in more private quarters.

He laughed heartily as her mouth fell agape, but she didn’t see the humor in it. “Surely you’ve experienced similar flirtatious attention back in Marseille?”

“No. Not nearly as,” Christine mentally searched for an appropriate word, “ardent.”

When she traveled, she encountered more leery men than she had wanted to, but their intentions were never out of actual care or love for her person. Attention on her was far more subdued in Marseille. She remembered the occasional neighborhood boy who would give her a lingering look over but struck nothing more than idle chit chat. In all of her experiences with men, nothing ever went past scant chatting, and the more she relived it, the deeper she frowned. While she wasn't in a rush to marry, shouldn't there have been anyone interested in her? The only prospect she ever considered was Raoul, and yet, she could never understand if she fit his ideal or not...

_Am I that unattractive?_ _Why,_ she lost herself in her own self-assessment, absentmindedly picking at a loose stitch in her dress, _I didn't think I was half bad…_

Raoul seemed to turn his thoughts inward, his only indication that he had heard her expressed through an unclear mumble of words. 

As he escorted her out, he fiddled with his coat buttons. After requesting for his carriage, he stopped in the foyer, and that sweet, concerned look Christine was giving him heightened his fidgety mannerisms. 

Christine nudged his arm. “Is something wrong?”

Better he out with it now before he lost his courage.

“Christine, I must confess. You are a wonderful woman, and I wish to stay by your side properly. As a man." 

Heart jumping in his chest and into his throat, Raoul prayed frantically for a favorable response. Christine was always a sweet person, but she also seemed to know what she wanted out of life. She auditioned at the Garnier before anywhere else! Of all places! And for all his suaveness at the parties and amongst his fathers' associates, his nerves inflamed at the thought of Christine, the Marseille girl by the sea, holding this much power over their fate. 

Christine seemed to know it, too.

"Yes," she scrutinized him. A beat. A blink of the eyes. "I do know you are a man."

The room turned unbearably warm.

"Yes—I mean, no. That is not what I'm saying, I–” He caught a glint in Christine’s eye and he cursed. Of course. He knew this girl for an entire summer, and yet, he still could not predict her strange humor. “You're playing with me, aren't you?" Christine smirked in reply, and Raoul huffed a breath as he ran a hand through his hair. "Here I am trying to ask permission to court you since you are moving to Paris. And yet, you make fun of me!” 

"Well, that's no guarantee, Raoul."

He wanted to crawl into a pit and lay there forever. 

"What, the courting?"

“Oh no! I mean my acceptance at the Populaire.” 

It was his turn to blink at her but for completely different reasons. “But there was never any question about that. I am certain that they are a prestigious establishment and only want the best. They’d be going against their mission if they passed on you.”

Some humble platitudes fell from her mouth, and as he watched her fumble over his praise, he thought it adorable. 

And then touch appeared on the back of his hand, pulling him from his thoughts. Christine. 

“What you said earlier. Do you mean it? Truly?” 

The innocence and anticipation in her tone ignited his confidence once more, and Raoul seized the opportunity to bring her hand to his lips, giving it a polite but well-intentioned kiss. 

“Why ever should I not? It only took a summer for you to follow my thoughts from Marseille to Paris, Christine," Raoul said without any more reservation or fear, sensing Christine's full attention on him. Her attention was unlike any other woman's, and the one he so openly received from Christine gave him a sense of purpose; direction. She was the wind in his sails, and he would be happy to give her a landing, a home someday. She deserved to be provided for, to be lavished, to be attended to for all the confidence she sparked in him.

Needing less courage and clinging to boundless hope, he squeezed the last bits of his confession. "And among those thoughts, I keep thinking of how I want nothing else but to make you happy like a proper gentleman. Permit me to court you, Christine, and I will make you as happy as I can." 

Apprehension made its appearance in a whisper. "Have you asked Papa?" 

His chest filled with the weight of rocks as he remembered Gustave Daaé's answering letter to him, and as much as it pained him to repeat any of the older man's writing, he pushed what he could say. 

_Yes._

And now it was up to her. Life was coming into focus once more. She was returning to music, to life, all in Paris! She had worried for nothing! Surrounded by a worthy company, her best friend, her father, and now, her partner, the future never held more promise. With them on her side, she could achieve anything, even in another new city. There were a pair of footsteps behind them, but she didn’t care if they were to have an audience. Bubbly and bright, Christine pushed forward to close the scant distance between them and jumped into his arms.

In the form of a small sparkle in deep blue eyes and a throw of her limbs around his neck, he presumed her answer, catching her with a great smile. When she pulled back, he planted a proper kiss upon her lips, and to his teeming delight, Christine kissed him back. Someone whistled—his older brother must feel awfully vindicated right now—and Raoul tuned him out. He tuned out his father's past complaints about everything he did wrong for the plain reason that this was the one thing he felt was right. 

All that mattered was the woman in his arms and earning the right to hold her exactly like this every day.

Someday, they will have that.

* * *

Emerging from the hill of Marseille-Saint-Charles station, her spirits were as high as a kite in a noon breeze. In the early morning, Madame Giry had informed her that she would receive her verdict by mail, hurriedly ushering Christine out of the Garnier to meet her cab to the Gare de Lyon mainline. Meg followed them all the way to the bottom of the staircase, embracing Christine fiercely. After looking at her mother briefly, she offered Christine the brightest of hopes, to “expect a favorable response soon”. 

Christine searched the scant crowd. She could hardly wait to tell Valerius’; surely, the good professor would consider this a great win. Most of all, the sealed letter from the managers, a result of surprisingly short conservation, burned a hole in her pocket. Most of the passengers for this stop seemed to be other women, embracing their sailor husbands, presumably on their lunch breaks, or entire families returning from some trip, their family’s carriage drivers, at the ready to take them home.

Her eyes landed on an unexpected sight. Leaned upon her walking cane nearby the family carriage stood Madame Valerius. The old woman rarely left the house when she didn’t need to, and surely, Papa wouldn’t ask her to receive Christine at the station instead. Christine cast another look around the street. Steeling herself, she bounded up to Madame Valerius, who met Christine’s eyes through her rounded eye glasses.

It took a glance. She paled. The carpet bag slipped from her grip as she questioned Madame Valerius once more.

It took the shake of the older woman’s normally steady hands covering Christine’s. Papa couldn’t be here to comfort her; he was in the sanatorium. 

It took the laughter of children meeting their fathers and mothers in the carriage. She wished they would keep their joy to themselves. Christine choked out a sob, regretting the envious thought. 

Since when did a heart break to the sound of laughter?


End file.
